“Thanks to you, Denise!” said Dalville in an undertone.
But the girl put her hand over his mouth, and he seized the hand and pressed it to his heart without more words. They showed him the cottage, the garden, every nook and corner, and Denise said to him at every step:
“Do you like this? Are you satisfied with the use I have made of your money?”
“What surprises me,” said Auguste, “is that you can build a house with three thousand francs.”
“In the first place, monsieur, we had the land; and then, you see, the cottage has only four rooms and attics above.”
“But that pretty summer-house where I slept last night?”
“Oh! I had that built after my poor aunt’s death. I preferred to live here than in our house. I felt as if I weren’t so far away from you.”
These words were accompanied by another sweet smile; all of which was not calculated to induce Auguste to look upon the lovely girl as his sister simply.
After breakfast they sat in the shade of a clump of lilacs. They talked a long while, having so much to say to each other after a long separation. The girl did not weary of listening to Auguste’s stories of his travels. When he mentioned Bertrand’s name, a sigh escaped him; whereupon Denise took his hand and pressed it affectionately, to give him to understand that he still had friends. He continued his story, but her hand remained in his, and she did not think of withdrawing it.
Engrossed by the pleasure of being with Denise, of exchanging soft glances with her, it did not seem to occur to Auguste that he must look upon her only with a friend’s eyes. Nor did Denise seek to conceal the state of her feelings from him; on the contrary, she wished him to read in the lowest depths of her heart.